


it pleases me

by Val Mora (valmora)



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Morning Sex, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-27
Updated: 2016-08-27
Packaged: 2018-08-11 09:27:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7885660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valmora/pseuds/Val%20Mora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Napoleon was most of the way through saying <i>Do you want some toast</i> when Illya rolled over and looked at him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	it pleases me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [beili](https://archiveofourown.org/users/beili/gifts).



> Mr. Kuryakin's name, in deference to the Russian spelling, has been rendered with one L rather than two in the body of this fic. The summary and tags agree with the canon spelling for ease of sorting.
> 
> The title is from Nina Simone's "Do I Move You?" The song mentioned in the fic is meant to have been that piece, which was written in 1967.

Napoleon, having reached the end of his toast and of the chapter of the book he was reading, poked his head into the bedroom and was most of the way through saying _Do you want some toast_ when Ilya rolled over and looked at him.

Ilya looked at him frequently, this was true; they were unofficially living together, as well as collaborating frequently at work even though they were out of the field. Ilya didn't usually look at him like this, though: directly and half-expectant, a flush high on his cheeks, tangled in bedsheets and his half-hard cock outlined by the fabric. He seemed nearly a masculine, teasing variation on the _Venus of Urbino,_ and Napoleon stepped into the room and knelt onto the mattress, on top of the sheets, and leaned down to kiss him.

Ilya sighed and wrapped an arm around Napoleon's waist, welcoming and shatteringly intimate, and Napoleon let himself linger at Ilya's mouth until his shoulders protested having to support him for so long.

"Good morning," he said finally, close to Ilya's lips.

Ilya didn't bother to clear his throat, and his voice came out rough. "Yes."

Napoleon kissed him again, until Ilya was stroking the small of his back beneath his pajama shirt, fingertips rough against his skin.

"Breakfast?" Napoleon offered, from a good couple of inches away this time.

"Later, if it's all the same to you," Ilya said, because he of course knew that Napoleon had already eaten; he could probably smell the coffee on Napoleon's breath.

"It isn't," Napoleon said, tempted to press a row of kisses along Ilya's jaw and resisting. "I'm strongly in favor of being ravished."

"I thought you might be," Ilya said, as though he wasn't the one who'd showed himself off first. "Come here."

Napoleon let himself drop down next to Ilya and rolled onto his side. Ilya was still mostly under the sheets, which had crumpled over him, and the hair on his chest was pleasantly wiry under Napoleon's fingers when he laid a hand over Ilya's heart.

"Any particular ambitions?" Napoleon asked.

Ilya smiled faintly, turning his head to look at Napoleon. "Yes," he said, and then shifted so they were both on their sides facing each other. "All of them. You might as well get comfortable."

"Darling," Napoleon said helplessly, glad of the simple happiness written in Ilya's smile, the light in his eyes and the easy span of his relaxed shoulders, "with you looking at me like that, it's a lost cause."

Ilya's smile widened, and he leaned closer. "Then I'll stop looking at you."

He kissed the corner of Napoleon's jaw, just below his ear, and then beneath it, at the top of his neck, then a line of kisses down Napoleon's throat. Napoleon held onto Ilya's shoulders, and let his eyes close as he tilted his head back.

Ilya got as far as Napoleon's collarbones before making a disgruntled noise at encountering the neck of his pajama shirt; Napoleon grinned against Ilya's hair and said, "Would you believe I once knew a woman who could undo buttons with her mouth?"

"Yes," Ilya said. "But I am not so patient." He pushed the bottom of the shirt all the way up to Napleon's armpits and stroked his hand along Napoleon's bare side, then his back.

"No?" Napoleon let go of Ilya and started unbuttoning the shirt, while Ilya stroked his fingers through Napoleon's chest hair, brushing over his nipples occasionally and lingering over his scars.

"Faster to persuade you to do it," Ilya pointed out, smirking, just as Napoleon undid the last button.

"I see," Napoleon said, wry.

"Exactly," Ilya agreed, and bit gently at Napoleon's collarbone.

Napoleon wrapped his arms around Ilya's chest, keeping him close while he kissed his way along Napoleon's body, and tried not to arch into him as Ilya's mouth crept down his belly, slow, firm, and warm.

"What are you thinking?" Napoleon asked, as Ilya slid down the waistband of Napoleon's pajamas by half an inch and kissed his hipbone.

Ilya hummed to acknowledge the question even as he slid a hand to the back of Napoleon's thigh to hold him in place.

"I want you to feel good," he said after a moment.

"Mission accomplished," Napoleon told him, amused.

"Not like that." Ilya huffed a breath out against Napoleon's stomach. It tickled; Napoleon's muscles tightened. "Like after the show with the group that played -"

"That encore," Napoleon agreed. It was memorable: the music had been enjoyable, and as an encore they'd had a slow, rousing, sensual cover of a song Napoleon recognized from one of Ilya's records. Ilya had been visibly desperate to touch him the whole way back to the then-current terrible little apartment Ilya had been keeping, where he'd pressed Napoleon into the bed and - there was no better word for it, made love to him. Napoleon had felt feverish with being cared for as much as with the desire to come.

"Yes," Ilya said.

"I could go put on a record if you wanted," Napoleon offered, but Ilya frowned at him faintly in confusion.

"No," he said, after a moment. "Just let me."

Napoleon ran a hand through his hair, savoring the warmth and texture of it. "And you want me to stay on my side?"

Ilya tugged the waistband down a little lower and kissed him there. "If you want."

Which meant he didn't care. While Napoleon was tempted to shuck the pajama pants off, lie on his stomach, and urge Ilya into whole-heartedly fucking him into incoherence, it wasn't the best way to give Ilya what he wanted. So he slid onto his back and untied the knot at the waist of the pajamas.

Ilya followed him and pushed himself up onto his elbows for a moment before rearranging the fabric of the pajamas to let Napoleon's cock out through the fly.

Ilya leaned in and kissed the base, his cheek rubbing lightly against the shaft, not so much that his stubble scratched but enough for sensation, and Napoleon stroked Ilya's bare shoulders.

"Like this?" Napoleon asked.

Ilya hummed, skimming his hands up Napoleon's thighs.

"I like you like this," he said, letting his head rest on Napoleon's hip and giving his cock a demonstrative squeeze. "With the clothes still on."

"I know," Napoleon said, because Ilya had told him. It was comforting, apparently: feeling the soft warmth of cotton against his chest even as he used his mouth or his hand, or against his ass when Napoleon sank into him. Napoleon liked it too, but not because of that - maybe the sense of being too aroused to disrobe properly, or because of the mess, lubricant or spit or both catching on the fabric. He'd once caught sight of himself wet and shining as he withdrew, the fabric dark with slick, and he'd pushed in again and felt how the fabric had pressed against Ilya's thighs and balls and teased at the stretched edges of his hole and had come, just like that, early.

He thought he'd sucked Ilya off after, three fingers stroking inside him to make up for his loss, and near the end Ilya had said some excruciatingly, wonderfully filthy things that Napoleon saved for cold nights.

"I know," Ilya said, and licked at his circumcision scar.

"Then I'm glad we're on the same page," Napoleon said.

"Yes, all right." Ilya sighed, kissed the head, and wrapped a hand around him.

He went slow at first, waiting for Napoleon to get used to it, and then sped, slowing every few strokes so that he could sink his mouth down, wet and hot and gloriously deep, for a stroke or two before pulling off again. He was making a mess, too, after the first few times, spit easing the slide and catching in the fabric.

Napoleon cupped Ilya's jaw and pushed his thumb against Ilya's lips; Ilya kissed the pad and then, thoughtfully, licked it, hand slowing.

"Good idea," he said after a moment. "Vaseline?"

Napoleon reached out to the bedside table, but it was too far. He inched himself up the bed by about six inches, and that did it, even as it dragged the back of the pajamas down - not that he thought Ilya minded.

Ilya kissed Napoleon's fingers, eyes falling shut, and then he said, "I like it better if you do it to yourself right now."

"Okay," Napoleon said, slicking his fingers, and skimmed his hand under the waist of the pajama pants, on the other side of where Ilya kept resting his head, to push into himself.

It was a really terrible angle, but Ilya made a warm, low noise of pleasure and arousal, and his back flexed in a way that meant he'd just thrust against the bed.

"You don't want to put yours to use?" Napoleon asked, even as Ilya sank back down onto him.

Ilya hummed around him, which was enough to silence Napoleon, who judiciously decided to let him get on with it.

It took a little while - the angle was genuinely bad - but eventually he did finish, into Ilya's hand, where it dripped onto the pajama pants. By that point, Napoleon didn't care.

"What do you want?" Napoleon asked, languid, beginning to soften but unwilling to tuck himself back in.

"Mm," Ilya said, sliding back up the bed. He was still, somehow, hard. Napoleon didn't know how he'd managed it; he'd been lying on his front on the mattress the whole time.

Napoleon removed his fingers from himself, using what was left of the lubricant to reach down between them and stroke Ilya, who pushed into it.

"Like this?" Napoleon asked. "Or - " he nudged the pajama pants waistband down, indicatively, even as he drew one knee up.

Ilya closed his eyes and pushed up again into Napoleon's fist. "What do you want?"

Napoleon smirked into Ilya's shoulder and sped his hand a little. "By the time we finish discussing it like gentlemen the point will be moot."

"That's fine," Ilya said, so Napoleon stroked him until he finished, too.

They lay there, messy and sated, for a moment, until Ilya twitched and pulled out of his grasp.

"We should probably go shower," Napoleon said regretfully, and didn't move.

"Mm," Ilya said, already half-asleep, face buried in the pillow.


End file.
